


build me the moon

by ag_sasami



Series: WIP Amnesty [1]
Category: The Night Circus - Erin Morgenstern
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Literal Sleeping Together, Multi, WIP Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:13:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22196866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ag_sasami/pseuds/ag_sasami
Summary: Wherein Bailey isn't getting enough sleep and Widget gifts him a tent.
Relationships: Bailey Clarke & Poppet Murray & Widget Murray, Bailey Clarke/Poppet Murray, Bailey Clarke/Widget Murray
Series: WIP Amnesty [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597828
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	build me the moon

The early days are exhausting and most nights the witching hour finds Bailey curled in whomever’s bed is easiest to reach when he can no longer hold himself upright. Poppet climbs in over top of him, settle herself between the wall and the gentle rise and fall of his chest against her back, tight curls of her hair fluttering in his soft gusting breath. Other nights Widget slips under the blankets beside him, face first in the pillow, one foot hanging off the end of the mattress, the other tangled between Bailey’s ankles. 

Properly speaking, they have their own rooms, each connected to the others with tricks and charms and the sheer force of Bailey’s will. Practically speaking, there is no distinction. 

Celia and Marco try their best to teach him, but the magic takes time. Determination alone proves insufficient to rewrite his attachment to the universe, to unmake his common means of existence. 

“I’m fine, really,” Bailey insists.

Widget lifts their hands, unwinds his fingers from between Bailey’s to press a kiss against his knuckles. “You’re a liar.” He lets Bailey’s hand fall away with a lingering brush of his fingertips as gravity take its leisure. Behind the sound of the heavy canvas tent flap being dragged across itself, Bailey hears the laughter of circus patrons and the hiss of coarse black crystal falling back to the spiraled earth in the wake of rêveurs’ footsteps down the path outside.

Bailey’s sigh radiates through the tent, delicate watercolor waves cresting a melancholy blue across the walls as if he dropped a rather large stone in the center of a lake. He traces the leading edge of the wave and his ragged fingernails leave the white foam crests edged in gold. As he lifts the tent flap with his forearm, he presses his other hand flat against the wall until it erupts in a shower of gold around the space and up to the ceiling. Beneath it, a deep red glitters like firelight igniting from beneath his palm. Behind him, the glittering sunset washes slowly down into the sea as the tent closes over.

*~*~*~*

Poppet finds him in the vestibule, dozing lightly with his cheek cradled in his palm. She commits to memory the way his little finger rests against the side of his nose. The ink stains on the side of his hand. How his softly parted lips recast his face young, like the boy he was when he bound them to one another. She strokes his forehead.

“Bailey.” 

He inhales deeply but keeps his eyes closed. “He’s angry with me,” he says and the heel of his hand against his chin muffles the words.

“Widge doesn’t get angry.”

“No,” he concedes. “You know what I mean. He did that thing with his face he always does when he reads something he neither intended nor wanted to know.”

“Oh, call it what it is.” Poppet giggles, short and lively and as thought the sound escaped from her throat without her permission. “His face  _ twitches _ .”

Bailey squints at her through one open eye, and his scowl comes off significantly less effective than he intended. “Poppet, I’m serious.”

She hefts up the edge of her skirt to crouch in front of him. With a finger beneath his chin she replies, “So am I. What did you do?” Somehow, when Poppet asks him the question she does so with care and a distinct lack of accusation.

“I told him I was fine.” 

Poppet winces, admonishes, “ _ Bailey… _ ”

“I  _ know _ .” His whine is most undignified. 

“Well,” she begins. Careful not to damage the edges of her dress, Poppet gets back to her feet and offers Bailey a hand up as well. “Give him some space. He’ll come around soon enough, I’m sure.”

He cups both her cheeks, leans down to kiss her softly. “Thank you.”

“Go sleep,” she replies against his lips. Returns his kiss, slow and purposefully restrained.

On this night Bailey makes it to his own bed and wakes in the light of mid-morning to Widget draped across his back, breath hot against the back of his neck; Poppet’s head on his pillow, her hand in his.


End file.
